


Disconnected Pieces

by EbbaTriesToWrite



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Booker | Sebastien le Livre Needs Therapy, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27153961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbbaTriesToWrite/pseuds/EbbaTriesToWrite
Summary: A bunch of scenes/snippets/dialogue pieces that I’ve written that have no context or plot. Mostly just a bunch of Booker being a sad dude as always.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	1. To feel it

_ “He wanted to care, he wanted to care so badly, but there was this gap between what he felt and what he wanted to feel, a space where something important had been carved out.” _

_ ― Victoria Schwab _

* * *

“Why the fuck won’t you just talk to us?” Joe nearly flinched at the volume of his own voice, but he didn’t let himself stop now, “We’re right here! And you  _ still  _ won’t talk to us!” 

“What do you want me to say?” Booker shot back, he practically hissed the words. 

“Anything!” he threw his hands in the air, he’s so fucking tired of this, the same argument again and again, never leading anywhere, “Just explain to me what made you do it.” 

“You really want to hear it?” Booker scoffed.

“Yes!” 

“Okay,” Booker nodded and threw back his glass, downing half of it in quick gulps, “Okay. You want to know why?” he didn’t wait for an answer, “Because I don’t feel  _ anything.  _ Everything is just so fucking numb. You keep saying  _ you’ve gotta feel it.  _ And I don’t! Nothing! I slit a man’s throat yesterday and I didn’t even feel a sliver of guilt and I  _ know _ I should, but I don’t.”

“Booker-”

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” he spits the words out as if they were venom, “That I don’t care about anything at all, is that it? You wanted to know what kind of monster I am, right?” 

“That’s not-” 

“Don’t worry,” Booker shakes his head, greasy hair falling into his face, “I’ll be out of here by morning.” 


	2. Being broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Knowing that you’re broken doesn’t mean you have the slightest idea of how to fix it._

He looks himself in the mirror but he does not recognise the eyes staring back at him. They’re the same color they’ve always been, and his eyelids fold like they always have, and rationally he knows that it’s  _ him.  _ But rationality has never won in his mind, it’s always beaten down by far more powerful things. 

No one understands that though. 

They say that they love him, they wrap their arms around him or pat him on the back as they tell him they’re always there to listen. They don’t hear the voices screaming in his head though; 

_ They pity you _

_ They think you’re weak _

_ You’re a burden _

_ They’ll leave if you tell them about us _

And so he nods, and he thanks them. He forces himself to tell them he loves them back and it always feels like a lie. He wishes he wasn’t so broken, he wishes he knew how to love properly. 

People say that knowing there’s a problem is the first step into finding a solution. He thinks that’s bullshit. Knowing that you’re broken doesn’t mean you have the slightest idea of how to fix it. 

It’s all hopeless. 


	3. He had expected more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He had expected more but had hoped for less._

_ He had expected more but had hoped for less.  _

Sebastien doesn’t think Andy understood the weight of his words, the sad smile she had sent him as she walked away told him as much. Maybe he’ll tell her when they meet again, in the afterlife - if there even is one. The thought pains him but he figures it’s what he deserves. He has known this was a long time coming. 

_ He had expected more _

Even if he hadn’t betrayed them, he knows he would have ended up hurting them anyways. He doesn’t know how but he knows he would, it was just who he was. They’d leave or tell him to leave, it’s inevitable. 

It’s just too bad he hadn’t been able to find the end of this cruel existence like he had hoped. 


	4. Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: panic attack and self harm

He knows he could breathe. He can see others do it right in front of him but still, his breath stutters and he chokes on nothing. His hands are trembling and he wishes nothing more than to place them on his chest, if only to remind himself that he’s there, that he has a body and a heart in there, protected by tissue and bone and skin. He doesn’t do it, there are others right in front of him. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling the fuzz and dirt stick to clammy palms. His hands curl into a fist and he’s distantly aware that it should hurt, the skin on his knuckles is pulled taut and his nails must be digging into his palms. 

He doesn’t feel it. 

His heart is pounding. He feels that. It hurts. But at least it’s something. They’re right there but they don’t notice and he wishes he could be angry with them for it. But he can’t. All he can focus on is the blood rushing in his ears and the way snow flickers before his eyes each time he closes them. He can’t breathe. He knows he could. He knows he should. 

He slips away, both physically and mentally but again, the others don’t notice. The door shuts behind him and he sinks down to the floor, pressing himself hard against the surface behind him but feels nothing but a prickling sensation, like when you’ve sat on your foot for too long and it feels like nothing but also distinctly like  _ something.  _ It almost hurts, that numbness. 

Over the sound of his too fast heartbeat and desperate intakes of breath, he hears a thump. It’s not rhythmical and it stops for some time before it returns, two quick thumps, and then it’s gone again. There’s something warm and wet dripping down the back of his neck and it takes much too long for him to realise that he’s the one that’s making the noise. It doesn’t make it stop and that terrifies him even more. 

How little control does he have of himself if he doesn’t even know when he’s slamming his head back against the wall? 

It helps though, the blood dripping down the back of his neck gives him something to focus on and his vision is getting more and more hazy by the second. He’s sure he’ll pass out soon and he slams his head back harder, vision going completely black for a second and then it comes back, so he does again. And again. And  _ again.  _

He doesn’t feel it when he crumples, cheek ending up pressed to the floor as his vision finally dims completely. He doesn’t feel the door pushing against his back as someone tries to open it. All he feels is his breathing stop. He knows he’ll breathe again and he hates it more than anything. 


	5. Doesn't matter

“You have to start caring about yourself you asshole!” Andy yells, she wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until the pieces fall into place but something about his posture makes her feel like he’d crumble apart if she did, “We didn’t bring you back early just so you could go on some self destructive war path.” 

“Then you should just let me leave.” Booker sighs, “Why are you even arguing about this?”

“Because I love you!” she throws her arms in the air, how many times does she need to say it until he fucking gets it? “The least you could do is try, you can’t just keep running from th-”

“Yes I can.” Booker interrupts, voice hollow, “It doesn’t matter what I do.” 

“Booker come on-” Joe sounds just as frustrated as Andy feels, but he’s much better at masking it, “just put that bag down and we can talk about this.” 

“I don’t want to.” Booker shakes his head, “I know I should,” and then he looks at her, straight in the eyes and Andy falters, she’s seen this look before, “but I don’t.” 

He turns on his heels and hikes his bag higher on his shoulder, only stopping when Nicky reaches out to grab at his arm, “Booker, where are you even going to go? What are you going to do?” 

A quick release of air through his nose, nowhere close to a laugh but his lips twitch ever so slightly, “It doesn’t matter.” 

He shrugs Nicky’s hand off and walks away. 

“He’s going to do something stupid~” Quynh sing-songs from where she’s still splayed on the couch, casually twirling a knife in her hand, “If you really care you should probably stop him.”


	6. To tell the difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _phantom touches  
>  phantom pains_
> 
> He can’t tell the difference anymore.

_ phantom touches  _

_ phantom pains _

He can’t tell the difference anymore. It doesn’t matter if he wakes up from a dream - filled with soft smiles, low chuckles and warm embraces - or a nightmare - screams and accusations mingling into one as fists rain down on his body, bruises and cuts healing instantly -, it’s all the same. Nausea pools in his gut either way, he still wakes up gasping for breath and reaching out for anything -  _ anyone  _ \- to help steady him. Nothing -  _ no one  _ \- helps. 

They told him a century but he’s long since lost track of time. He had told himself he’d look out for them in secrecy but his energy dwindled too quickly and he couldn’t even do that. When - if - they reunite, he’ll be too ashamed to admit this, he’s already revealed what a pathetic person he is, he doesn’t want to reveal more. 

They had asked him for time to heal and he knew they wanted it for him too, and that was all the evidence he needed to know he hadn’t revealed it all. He was weak and a coward and they didn’t know that he’s unable to change these fundamental aspects of his very being. He didn’t know how. 

He had brushed shoulders with someone on the street and he had flinched so violently he’d nearly fallen over. The light touch had sent a tingling sensation down his arm and he couldn’t distinguish if it hurt or not. He feared it happening again and so he didn’t leave his house again for a long time after that. It was only when he’d drank the last of his rum that he left and even then he made sure it was during a time of day where not many people would be out.

When he saw someone walking towards him, he crossed the street to avoid the potential pain? pleasure? of making physical contact with another. He doesn’t know how long it will be until he has to be in London again but he hopes he won’t be like this then. He doesn’t want to be this way. 


	7. Nothing

“You looked at me as if I were nothing,” he swallows around the lump in his throat and squares his shoulders, “and you made me believe it.” 

“Oh honey.” she sighs, looking up at him with soft eyes and he can’t help but lean into her touch when she reaches out to cup his face. Her eyes sharpen, “You are nothing.”

He flinches and tries to step back but her hand has wrapped around the back of his head, gripping his hair tightly. It’s not the worst pain he’s felt by any means but it makes his mind short circuit. She’d always run her fingers through his hair as she whispered false apologies and cried as she promised it’d never happen again. He had known that it would but somehow, that gentle touch would make him discard the truth and he’d close his eyes as if he trusted her. 

She wasn’t being gentle anymore. 


	8. Awareness

Sometimes Booker forgets where he is. Not in the geographical sense really, more so in that he becomes disconnected from his place on earth. It doesn’t make sense and one would think after experiencing it for so long - before he lost his mortality, even when he was just a kid - he’d be able to put it into words, but he can’t. It doesn’t happen often enough for it to be a concern - at least not while he’s with the others, they always act like an anchor when he starts floating away. 

Now, though, it happens frequently and he’s not just losing his presence but he’s losing time as well. It scares him in the moments when he’s aware of what’s going on but before he can even begin to process that, he’s gone again. He briefly wonders if it’s punishment or salvation. 

Sometimes he thinks he hears voices but they sound distorted, as if they’re far away and there’s static in the air - like right before a dry thunderstorm - and he can’t make out the words. But it doesn’t matter, it’s not like he’d be able to respond anyways. His throat is dry and his tongue is heavy in his mouth. 

Everything is heavy. 

He’s pretty sure he’s died a couple times like this, he can’t recall the last time he ate and if starvation didn’t kill him, withdrawal surely would have. There’s a tickle in his nose and when he tries to swallow it feels like there’s something in his throat. He tries to figure out what it is but he loses his train of thought as the floaty feeling comes back. It’s disorienting and scary but it’s also easier. 

Next time he’ll try to stay aware. He promised he’d be better the next time he saw his family. He can’t stay like this forever. 

Or, maybe he can.


	9. A century alone

_ A century alone.  _

There were moments when Joe pondered what that would look like and he yearned to go find Booker, he wasn’t proud to admit that he rarely actually cared about the potential horrid state he’d find the man in and rather wanted to do it to stave off his curiosity. In the later decades, as they were nearing the reunion, he found himself worried about it, the anger and pain finally having dimmed enough to make him remember the good times he had had with his brother. He missed him, and he could only imagine how much Booker had missed them. 

_ “You’re going to regret this.”  _

Nile’s voice from so long ago echoes in his mind and he hates how right she was. It wasn’t anything big really, Joe probably wouldn’t have noticed it if his eyes didn’t constantly drift to land on Booker even when he tried to will them not to. He was skinnier now, his hair was shorter, as if it had been shaved off a year or so ago but it was growing back in patches. There were bald spots at the back of his neck, and eight lines over the crown of his head. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what caused it. And even if Joe hadn’t been able to make sense of the strange hair growth, the way Booker would scratch at his arms, legs, middle, chest, shoulders, neck,  _ everywhere, _ unconciously surely would have clued him in. 

Sometimes it wasn’t so bad though, in the sense that Booker wouldn’t draw blood as he did things he wasn’t even aware of doing. Sometimes he’d just rock place, holding himself as if it was the closest thing he could get to a hug. He’d pet himself too, rub his arms or his throat and neck, calming himself down even when there was nothing going on except for Nicky and Nile cooking in the kitchen. His eyes would flick around the room during those times, looking for enemies or escapes, Joe wasn’t sure which. 

But really, that wasn’t much better than the scratching. And worst of all, Joe didn’t know how to help, especially since Booker seemed to have forgotten how to speak more than one word at a time. 


	10. Handle it

He thought he could handle it. He knew he wouldn’t handle it well, but he _ thought _ he could handle it. Getting out of bed had always been difficult in the past but now… now it was practically impossible. 

He’d been alone so many times already. He had lost everything once and he had handled it. Handled it with alcohol and by following others without a single thought of his own. But he didn’t have that now. 

_ You have nothing. _

Somehow it felt like even that was more than he deserved. 

How much time has passed? 

An hour? A year? A decade? 

He didn’t know and he didn’t care. 

_ You’re lying again.  _

> “It is both a blessing  
>  And a curse  
>  To feel everything  
>  So very deeply.”

  
David Jones can go screw himself. How could this ever be a blessing? 

_ You’re pathetic.  _

He sluggishly moved his hands to cover his ears as if it could block out the echoing voice in his head. 

It didn’t help and so he fisted his hands in the sheets instead, burrowing his head deeper in the crusted yellow pillow he was resting on. 

A distorted scream tore itself through his raw throat and passed dry lips.

It hurt. 

Someone was knocking on the door. 

He didn’t get up.

He couldn’t.


	11. Barbed Wire

_ There is something heavy nestled in his chest. Barbed wire curled around his lungs that scratch at sensitive tissue with every breath.  _

He once tried to describe it to Nicky because he’d insisted he’d always be there to listen if he needed to talk. And he had listened but his brows furrowed in confusion and concern before they smoothed out as he plastered a soft smile onto his lips. He’d told him it would get easier with time but Booker had always been able to see through people’s lies. 

He never held it against him though, because he knew Nicky was only trying to help and that he didn’t realise that optimistic promises based on  _ nothing  _ meant just that; it meant nothing. How could Booker ever believe that it would get easier when the one he confided in didn’t know either?

And so he didn’t talk to Nicky about such things again. It might have been petty and rude and unappreciative but he didn’t want to force him to lie to his face again. He probably didn’t even realise Booker knew how unsure he was of the advice he gave and so it was just better not to ask for it. 

_ Sometimes his fingers grow numb. They feel cold and when he reaches up to scratch at his neck or beard or wherever, he’s sure he’s back in Russia. _

He told Andy about it one time and she had held his hands in hers and brought them to her lips to fan warm breath onto them. Her lips curling into that smile that could only be described as comforting. She had whispered that he wasn’t in Russia anymore and pressed gentle kisses on his knuckles. She had told him that everything was okay. 

Booker never told her that he had noticed the way her eyes wouldn’t meet his when she spoke. He doesn’t think he ever really left Russia. 

_ He wants to die.  _

They all knew it but he’d only said it aloud once. It was Joe who had heard him and Booker will always regret that very fact. Even though Joe was older than Booker could really comprehend, there was a certain innocense to his disposistion. He needed a reason for everything and if he couldn’t find one… then he’d decide that he was the reason. 

In the weeks that followed, Booker had made sure to pretend that he was okay as much as he could just so that Joe would believe that he was the reason for his progress instead. It was easier than expected but it made sense, Joe always had believed in the power of words. He believed that airing your troubles was the first step to solving them. 

_ There is still barbed wire around his lungs and his hands never seem to warm up as they should. He still wants to die.  _


	12. Smiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They’re dead!” Joe screamed, finally managing to look Booker in the eyes and the sight of him made him stumble back, Nicolo steadied him with a firm hand on his back, “They’re dead.”_
> 
> _“Yes.” Booker tilted his head and smiled, “I saved them from all this suffering.”_

Joe kicked the door open, breath still coming in fast from rushing through the tunnels in the bunker. He could hear Nicolo behind him, going at a slightly slower pace to check if any of the guards were still alive. Something dark and twisted urged him to go back to make sure these sick men were truly dead, he wanted to be the one to make them suffer for the pain they’d caused in this world. But he pushed it down - like he always did - and focused on the task at hand; finding the kids and thanking whoever had come before them to do their job for them. 

He felt along the wall for a lightswitch, he’d forgotten his flashlight in his hurry to get in, and when he found the switch the room lit up brightly. The concrete floor and blinding white walls came into view and Joe froze. There was too much red. The kids were too still. 

He felt sick at the idea of having wanted to thank whatever monster did this-

“Oh wow!” a familiar voice called from the corner of the room and Joe felt his heartbeat skip a beat, “It’s been far too long, brother! How have you been?” 

“Wh-what happened here?” he stuttered out, unable to tear his gaze from the small boy who held an even smaller girl in his arms, there was so much blood, “What happened?” he yelled, voice shaking. 

“What do you mean?” Booker asked, sounding genuinely confused as he stepped over the body of a girl who couldn’t be older than thirteen, “I helped you out on your mission.” 

“Booker?” Nicolo gasped from behind him but Joe still couldn’t look away, “What- what are you doing here?” 

“I saved the kids.” he said it as if it were obvious, and then he laughed but it sounded so…  _ wrong,  _ “I saved them.”

“They’re dead!” Joe screamed, finally managing to look Booker in the eyes and the sight of him made him stumble back, Nicolo steadied him with a firm hand on his back, “They’re dead.” 

“Yes.” Booker tilted his head and smiled, “I saved them from all this suffering.” 

“You killed them?” Nicolo gasped and out of the corner of his eye Joe saw him reach for the gun strapped to his hip, “Did you?” he demanded an answer.

“Yes.” Booker’s smile widened, “I saved the-”

A shot rang out and Booker crumpled to the ground. 

He was still smiling. 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not going to be expanding on any of these, but I thought that someone might still enjoy them so… ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
